Morning rises: cadmium orange, apocalyptic, mocking. We stand on the side of the mountain, having hiked halfway up sometime during the night, incoherent because we'd each downed a handful of peach schnapps at your mother's promotion barbeque. (You found me in a corner with my head buried in The Bell Jar and decided I was too suburban for my own good.)

"This is God announcing his second coming," you say wearily.

"You'd think there would be more of a fanfare. Only we bothered to hold vigil!"

It was true. We were the only ones who stood close enough to the edge of the world to see the feathers covering the rising sun. They were almost liquid, molten.

I sigh and turn back to you only to find my own reflection in the lens of your sunglasses; sometime during the night you turned into a vampire, and now I am the one with my back to the sun, masquerading as Icarus. "We should get back soon," I finally say.

"Why? They won't notice we're missing, and even if they do, they won't miss us." You take off your sunglasses and smile at me, teeth, eyes and hair all glowing badly, like a fake tan.

Then I knew; I knew what you meant to do with the atomic morning and what you had already done with our hasty departure last night. Your smile gets wider, clown-like, and your breath thickens with the crazy yellow frost. "Let's stay awhile and watch the sunrise."

And I knew that by "awhile" you actually meant "forever," and by "sunrise" you actually meant "God finally getting up the nerve to reclaim his kingdom." I place my nuclear hand in yours, and smile back.